


Guildmaster

by ValleyNerd



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValleyNerd/pseuds/ValleyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian the Dragonborn contemplates what it means to be Guildmaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guildmaster

**Author's Note:**

> Minor spoilers for main plotline, major spoilers for Thieves' Guild plotline.

I knew what opposition the Guild was up against. I’d seen the worst of it with my own eyes, and faced it down. What was originally an amusing distraction from the “destiny” being shoved down my throat turned into my entire world. Even with dragons and Greybeards and Blades on my back, for those few months, there was nothing more important to me than the Guild. Truth be told, there still isn’t.

When I became a Companion, there was an overwhelming sense of welcome; of family. It was less and more with the Thieves’ Guild. There was no official welcome, no speeches, no ceremony. I was simply absorbed into the fold, started taking jobs like the rest of them, started learning from them. They learned my name as I learned theirs, and as I impressed them, they helped me hone my skills. With the Guild, there’s a peculiar sense of camaraderie at the same time there’s distance. The whole Guild can unify against a single enemy, but if you’re caught because of your own stupidity, you never existed to them.

There was no distance with Brynjolf. He was the one that recognized what sort of person I was the instant I stepped foot into Riften. He was the one to approach me, and invite me into the Guild. His words were edged with taunts, even from the beginning. Though I was only a few years younger than him, he’d still call me “lass” with his crooked smirk and damnable accent. Since coming to Skyrim I’d encountered thick Nordic accents left and right – but none affected me like Brynjolf’s.

He and I became closer as he took me on a few jobs. We were half-heartedly discreet about our flirtations, though a few of the thieves were surprisingly astute. I nearly laughed when Vex pulled me aside and tried to warn me away from Brynjolf, saying she and him were a “thing.” If they were, Brynjolf never knew. After Vex, we were more careful – but still I was his only _lass_ , and his eyes were narrower once the Guildmaster, Mercer Frey, took an interest in me.

After that, everything fell apart. After Frey’s betrayal I fought hard to clear Karliah’s name and get her back into the Guild – so I could go back, too. When she and I had what we needed with Gallus’s journal and went back to the Ragged Flagon, I discovered Frey had told everyone I was slain by Karliah’s hand. When I walked into the cistern, Brynjolf was the first one to recover from the shock and approach me. It was clear by his face that he’d been grieving. He raised one hand as if he ached to pull me into his arms, but in that moment Karliah stepped from the shadows behind me and he instead drew his blade.

At length Mercer Frey’s deeds were brought to light, and Brynjolf and I became Nightingales in order to bring him to justice. In the Nightingale stronghold, when Karliah told us the details of Mercer’s first betrayal, how the affection between Karliah and Gallus caused the man his life in the end. Brynjolf and I shared a look beneath our dark hoods. Karliah waited for our response to her tale. It was Brynjolf who broke the silence and said to me, “I think we should trust what the lass has to say.”

He said it without his usual inflection; referring to Karliah, lass was just a word. But there it was, that first step toward distance between him and I. Together, the three of us gave Mercer Frey what he deserved, and even made out with some profit. Then the next step of distance; Brynjolf and Karliah agreed I should be made the new Guildmaster, with Frey gone.

Every time I tried to speak with Brynjolf since then, it was always “Sorry, lass-“ and _lass_ wasn’t special any more “-I’ve got important things to do. We’ll speak later.” I think he wanted to delay the inevitable end to whatever “us” there was, just as much as I did. I continued to give my all for the Guild, becoming Thane of Riften to give as much protection the guild as to Brynjolf specifically.

“Sorry, lass,” began to interfere with our work within the Guild, though. I was the Guildmaster, he the second in command, and he wouldn’t even speak to me. Every time he fed me the line, my patience wore thinner until I finally snapped.

“Dammit, Brynjolf,” I shouted, words echoing off the walls of the cistern, every syllable clearly pronounced, “I am your Guildmaster and you will _listen to me_!” I caught him off guard, and the last inch of distance clicked into place. He never called me lass again, and the hurt it obviously caused him matched my own pain.

Vex made good on her earlier warning, and made her move. She didn’t gloat, like I thought she would. Though I tried not to let it bother me, Brynjolf’s movements became very stilted, his words short, when the three of us were in the same room.

So that was the end. I kept my house in Riften so I could retain my title, but I gathered all my valuables and personal effects and moved to Proudspire Manor in Solitude, hoping that greater distance would mean less pain. But of _course_ since I wanted to leave so badly, I left something behind. I arranged everything just how I wanted it in Solitude, then realized that I’d left the Blade of Hjaalmarch, the sword I’d earned from the Jarl of Morthal, on its display plaque above my bed in Riften. Leaving the rest of the arranging to my new housecarl, Jordis, I made the trip back alone.

I arrived under cover of night, on foot, and snuck through the streets to my own home. I entered the tiny, mostly-barren house. I shut the door behind me, dusted the snow from my shoulders and put my helmet on the hearth before I realized I wasn’t alone any more.

I belatedly realized the door hadn’t been locked, the lock picker standing frozen beside my bed, watching me with an expression of mixed guilt, fear, and longing.

“G’d evening, lass.”


End file.
